With a new pope in office whose facts are almost harder to believe than fiction, I head for Rome on Christmas Day to see what the new look of St. Peter's Square might be. I can't help thinking back decades to a visionary novel by Morris West called The Shoes of the Fisherman. In this inspiring book, made into the 1968 film starring Anthony Quinn as the supreme pontiff, a Roman Catholic pope, against all odds, walks the talk of faith, hope, and charity even offering to sell the treasury of the Vatican to feed the hungry.

Today's new pope, born as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, humbly does not even sign "P.P.," pontifex ponteficum, high priest of high priests, after his papal signature, breaking yet another Vatican tradition in his determination to follow in the unclad footsteps of the saint whose name he assumed upon election. Just a simple, Franciscus, thank you.

Nor does Francis wear the red slippers embroidered with gold thread worn by his predecessor, Benedict XVI, choosing his own practical orthopedic shoes for most occasions.

Other parallels between fiction and fact abound: the novel's Pope Kiril Lakota, taking the name of the saint who spread the gospel to Russia, is the first pope from a communist country. Francis is the first pope from South America, taking his name from the merchant's son from Assisi who renounces even clothes to bring himself closer to nature and his maker.

Both assumed a hitherto unused papal name. Like Pope Kiril, Francis leaves the security of the Vatican bastion to minister to the poor of Rome.

Both popes broke precedent immediately upon election, with Francis descending to the level of his fellow cardinals to greet them instead of waiting for them to ascend to his to offer obedience; then preferring to appear on St. Peter's balcony without the traditional red cape and wearing a simple iron cross around his neck versus the solid gold cross worn by his predecessors -- as though mindful of Chaucer's line, "What if the gold rusts, what will the iron do?" referring to the corruption of the clergy in medieval England. He began his first address as, not pope but "bishop of Rome," by asking for the assembled throng to bless him.

As his namesake Francis ministered to lepers, Francis I embraces a man whose skin is covered with boils.

Both popes face the daunting task of restoring confidence in a religious institution rocked with scandal both sexual and financial. Can he restore the faith of fallen-away Catholics like myself, who could no longer bear the dichotomy between institutionalism and morality?

Both pontiffs respond to the excesses of the hierarchy by renouncing clerical privilege, with Francis washing the feet of female convicts, the first pope in history to wash a woman's feet. Abandoning the bullet-proof Popemobile, he moves into crowds to kiss infants and invalids and join in selfies.

Unafraid of the mafia, both move against corruption in the Vatican.

Who else in this wacky world could be both Time magazine's "Person of the Year" and The Advocate's as well?

When millions of Chinese face starvation, Pope Kiril offers to sell off the riches of the church to feed the hungry, and asks that all wealthy countries do the same. Pope Francis attacks global capitalism, and castigates bishops who drive Mercedes. Overnight he's tendered a vision of the world's most powerful ecclesiastical institution as the humble champion of the poor.

From estranged divorcees to atheists to gays and lesbians to good people of other faiths, Francis ministers equally on the simple Christian platform, "Who am I to judge?"

He's asked the cardinals to exchange their bright red robes for simple priestly black. Let's see how that one goes. He referred to them not with the traditional "Lord Cardinals" but as "brother cardinals." No wonder there's already mumbling in the high ranks of churchly courtiers.

Breaking with tradition at every turn, Francis drives himself around in a beat-up twenty-year old Renault with 190,000 miles on it, phones -- on a land line -- to cancel his own newspaper, is an avid soccer fan, drinks Argentinian mate in public, and pays his own hotel bills. He chose a used ring (made for Paul VI's secretary) instead of ordering his own papal ring. After his first meeting with journalists, he waved away the papal limousine and walked back to the Vatican.

He celebrated Holy Thursday Mass not in the Vatican, but in a juvenile prison, extending his apparent determination to embody all the "corporal works of mercy." He returned to facing the people during his celebrations of the Holy Mass, rather than turning his back to them and facing the altar like his predecessors.

When he met the Jesuit general, titularly his superior, he apologized for not keeping protocol and insisted on being treated like any other Jesuit with the "tu" informal rather than "Your Holiness" or "Holy Father."

West's pope Kiril insists on the power of words to change the world. Francis is doing the same, but with equal insistence on the exemplary power of deeds. In doing so he transcends the very institution he heads. Here's rooting for him to continue his march toward becoming a living saint.

Produced By: PGA EastEdited By: Diana Lampiasi________________________________________The
Producers Guild of America protects and promotes the interests of all
members of the producing team in film, television and new media.

The
PGA has over 5,000 members who work together to protect and improve
their careers, the industry and community by facilitating members health
benefits, encouraging enforcement of workplace labor laws, the creation
of fair and impartial standards for the awarding of producing credits,
as well as other education and advocacy efforts.

The
hour was late and Janet would be coming soon. Geologist John Cavanaugh had been
organizing his notes and typing out his journal of the last year's expedition
for more than a month now, ever since they'd returned to the U.S. from Cairo,
and it now topped two hundred pages. At times, his memories of the events
seemed distant, as vague as a fading dream, but these days the latent terror
had been seeping into his consciousness like a virulent plague oozing through a
slum.

From
the first day he'd started writing, Cavanaugh had realized that the only way he
could record what had happened to them was to relate the incredible truth as if
he were telling a story to a stranger: reconstructing events he hadn't seen
from what his friends had told him during their trek, imagining the ghastly
fates of those who'd died alone, and piecing together his own recollections,
all the while knowing he would ultimately repress them. He'd even dared to hope
that setting it all down on paper would in some way distance him from all the
horrors, purge the evil from his mind, somehow put his heart at rest. But the
crisp details continued to swirl in his head like kaleidoscopic images.

He
pressed the "save" key, then put his head in his hands as he
confronted the tragic results of their desert quest for what seemed the
millionth time. His former employer and all but one other expedition member
were dead.

How
innocent they'd all been when they first set out in pursuit of the legendary
lost Persian army and Zerzura Oasis, completely ignorant of the terrors they
were destined to face. How foolish he'd been to believe that everyone on the
expedition would be focused on the same purpose. In truth, it had been every
expedition leader's worst nightmare—crew members with vastly different motives
for coming along.

Patterns
seemed to emerge only with remembrance. Cavanaugh had hoped to surpass his dead
father's desert exploits, prove himself worthy to share the great oilman's
name. Janet had been trying to escape an unhappy childhood. Professor Mathews
sought only the lost army; Omar Yettif nothing but Zerzura. The irascible Jack
Rennie had been chasing personal glory, while Jack's unhappy girlfriend Ellen
Rawson and Doug Genoways had hoped to forget their problems by finding each
other. On the verge of financial ruin, Emlyn Hobday had been after the gold.
Bill Kirkland and Tim Richardson had come along as hired hands. Morley Bishop,
a man growing progressively insane, had pursued them to the desert site in a
desperate attempt to save his son's soul.

Instead
of attaining their goals, they'd found The Father of All Fears.

Cavanaugh's
expedition had followed the path forged by a long-dead multitude into the
darkest nightmare imaginable.

Hobday
had been right when he said that scraps of raw power were left over after the
creation of an otherwise ordered universe—moral black holes, as it
were—unimaginable horrors, like the Father of All Fears. Insidiously, they
warped the destinies of all creatures.

Cavanaugh
pulled his thoughts back into focus and returned to his task, reporting the
events that had taken place after he and Janet had returned to Cairo.

They'd
been detained there for two months, questioned by both the desert police and
the military. The authorities had been skeptical of their story at first, then
alarmed when the desert police post in Kharga confirmed that the celebrated
archaeologist Dr. Hiram Mathews and ten others had indeed left for the deep
desert in early October but hadn't been heard from since.

Cavanaugh
had been called back to answer more questions when two Egyptian Air Force
helicopters sent out on an overflight of the Great Sand Sea to check out his
story returned after a two-day search. He'd been greatly relieved, expecting
full vindication; but his blood had turned to ice when he was informed that
they'd found no evidence of his claim, no abandoned vehicles or tracks, nor any
sign that anyone had been in that part of the desert—ever. One police official
had tried to hold him and Janet accountable for the disappearance of the
others, but had no concrete evidence of foul play. Instead, they were asked to
leave the country immediately and as quietly as possible. It had taken months
to get their visas reinstated.

The
day before their flight back to the States, Cavanaugh had gone to the Nile
Hilton photo shop to pick up his developed film, and all the powers of the
desert had swarmed back into his mind as he shuffled through the prints and
negatives.

Except
for a couple of shots of Cairo, Kharga, and the Hanging Spring, they were all
blank.

He’d
walked back to their hotel in a dazed sweat, feeling as if he’d been injected
with menthol.

He'd
finally made the monumental discovery he'd dreamed of all his life, but the
evidence was once again lost. His father had warned him not to be seduced by
the desert, not to go too deep; but he’d ignored the advice, at an enormous
cost.

Cavanaugh
stopped typing, running his hands through his fiery red hair as he shifted his
muscular six-foot-two-inch frame in the chair. He rubbed his right eye, then
got up and went into the bathroom to check it in the mirror. For the hundredth
time, he found nothing under the lid, but he knew there had to be something
there. The constant itching was driving him crazy.

Wandering
into the kitchen, he poured himself two fingers of White Horse before returning
to his desk. He stared at the screen as he sipped the scotch, forcing himself
back to the night that his own fate had changed course forever—from the moment
he'd stood in the doorway of the stone dwelling and seen and smelled the
abomination that passed by.

Cavanaugh
shuddered, the vision of hell flooding his soul.

The
doorbell rang, snapping him back to the present.

He
opened the door to see Janet standing on the stoop, suitcase in hand. Light
drizzle rolled off her hat and raincoat. She gave him a brave smile, the red
around her eyes and nose betraying tears mixed with rain. As she stepped
inside, he bent down to kiss her, then helped her out of her coat.

"Are
you sure about this?" she asked.

"I
have to do it," he said. "It's what I am now, what I'll always be
unless I go. I still wish you'd stay, though. You'd be safe here."

Janet
shook her head, taking his hand as she stared into his eyes.

-1-

There are many old sanded-up
wells...which very probably...were populous villages and oases; but which,owing
to...the encroachment of the sand...have long owing to...the encroachment of
the sand...have long since become deserted—W.J.
Harding-King

EGYPT, THE WESTERN DESERT NOVEMBER,
1686 C.E.

There
is no longer any reason to stay, the boy thought. All but five were dead now,
and they too would die, but he would probably perish long before they met their
fate. He gathered his courage, folded his reed cloak tightly around his
shoulders, and hefted his worn reed pouch and a dozen gourd canteens.

His
village of bone-filled stone houses, built by the ancient ones, had once
boasted more than a hundred people. Women had gathered eggs from the giant
birds and fashioned clothes from reeds and fibers of date palms, while the men
hunted the frogs that populated the spring pools, collected dates from the
trees, and took sweet water from the five springs.

Some
had believed that other people existed across the sand or in the sky, and some,
including the boy, felt they had come long ago from a distant universe. He had
accepted this version of their history because it was the one embraced by his grandfather,
reinforced by the old man's recollection of the last attack of the black
people. Dead nearly sixty moons now, his grandfather had been the last to claim
that there were spoken words in the odd triangular markings covering the white
rocks that lay tumbled among the trees.

His
grandfather had died, then the sand had come. In only four years it had
engulfed the springs, and the people had begun to die. They'd dug through to
water in the best spring once the wind was gone, but the sand came too fast and
there weren't enough survivors to keep the opening clear. Now, the last two
springs were quickly drying out, and the trickle of water tasted bad. Soon the
sand would cover everything.

Climbing
to the top of the dune that bounded their tiny universe the boy paused to
glance back at his home, but there was no one left to watch him go. His cousin
was sick, and her infant son lay dying. His great uncle had no mind and spent
the days playing idly in the sand. Only yesterday, his older brother had
implored him to go out and seek aid, weakly puffing his plea as he dug
frantically for water. There was nothing to keep him from going, and he had no
wish to watch his family die of thirst. There might be another place. Perhaps
the sand did not extend forever.

Perhaps
there was no demon of the desert.

His
grandfather had seen it, though, when he was a young man hunting lizards in the
trees. The sand had moved and he'd heard a humming and swishing noise. He'd
sensed that it felt his presence rather than saw him. Lying immobile, he had
covered his eyes, and it passed. When he rose, the sand around him was pocked
with little holes.

On
his deathbed, the boy's grandfather had raved endlessly about a way out,
telling him to walk toward the morning sun, over the dunes until they ended. He
claimed it was the way the ancient ones had come.

The
morning the boy left the oasis, the weather was warm and overcast. By the time
the sun finally sank behind him, he had crossed eleven of the long, tall dunes.
He crossed thirteen the next day, but only eight the day after. The weather
turned clear and hot, and the dunes were broader and lower than those he knew,
some crested with high sand ridges. Stifling heat made the sand softer, and
there was no breath of a breeze. He considered sleeping during the day and
walking at night, but feared to journey alone in the darkness.

On
the fourth day, he spied two large black birds, the first he'd ever seen.
Perched on the back of a narrow ridge of sand, they took flight as he dropped
over the crest. Their sharp cries startled him, but he was heartened to see
that there were other living things sharing his desolation. He watched them
until they dissolved into tiny specks on an unfamiliar horizon, his excitement
welling. Perhaps his grandfather had been right, he thought. Perhaps there were
more trees and another people on the other side.

The
fifth day of his trek saw the sand mountains become lower and broader until,
struggling to the top of a gentle rise of soft white sand, the boy
saw...nothing. No more hills of sand loomed in front of him. Instead, a flat
barren waste stretched out as far as he could see. Never had he been so
unconfined by ridges of sand, and the vastness of the stark vista terrified
him. He wept. The nothingness extends forever, he thought. We and the black men
are the only people who have ever existed.

Yet
just as the sheer immensity of what lay ahead sapped his courage, it hardened
his resolve. He knew he must journey on, for death lurked behind as surely as
it waited ahead. Solitude stole into his soul as he tramped down the slope of
the last dune, eroding the foundations of his reason.

The
boy cowered motionless that night, covering his eyes. Finally dozing, his sleep
was fitful, plagued with ophidian shapes that rose, crept about, dissolved, and
reformed all around him.

The
demon caught up with him at dawn. The boy had crossed thirty-nine dunes, then
twenty miles of open desert. The morning was cool, the wind still. An ominous
oppressive throbbing began, one the boy felt rather than heard. A cold fog had
crept in after the night wind, obliterating anything more than a few feet away.
It became difficult to breathe, as though the air enveloping him had the
consistency of water.

Recalling
the awesome emptiness he could no longer see, the boy fell weeping to the
ground. As he did, the throbbing stopped, instantly replaced by an eerie
stridulation. Then a rustling patter arose, advancing on him from all sides.
Icy fingers clutched at his heart.

A
succession of tiny sand ripples, each a few inches high, had grown across the
rocky flats during the night. The sand next to his breast was covered with
small, conical holes. Shivering uncontrollably, the boy remembered something
else his grandfather had told him—never look at moving sand.

A
blast of wind whipped his face as he heard the first frightful tolling. Sand
whickered across the rocky flats, dulling the regular thumping rhythm of
approaching terror. A gut-wrenching metallic stench permeated the air. Two
quarts of sand drizzled from his jerkin. Something moved in the sand-laden wind
directly in front of him. Something huge.

Then,
he saw it.

The
boy felt his body changing. His muscles jerked spasmodically, his head twisted
violently to one side. His joints stiffened.

He
opened his mouth to scream.

-2-

THE SAND SEA
JULY 21-22, 1999

From
the crest of the seif, a huge longitudinal dune, the speeding vehicle
was nothing more than a distant speck, droning sonorously as it picked its
lonely passage around the patches of sand flanking the yardangs—wind-sculpted
hills—on top of the mesa-like djebel. White limestone pinnacles rose in
jagged profusion tens of feet above the featureless pebble desert, the serir,
like half-buried statues. A few skiffs of yellow sand ameliorated the stark
contrast between the hills and the millions of black pebbles scattered across
the desert floor. In the baking stillness the vehicle was like an alien
invading force, its throbbing hum absurdly disproportionate to its tiny source.
The top of the dune was vacant, though, except for the billions of skittering
particles of sand racing parallel to its crest, then erratically tumbling down
its steep flanks in subdued whispers.

Cavanaugh
was driving too fast, and he knew he was in trouble the instant the tires hit
the white sand. Buffeted against the door and the chattering gear shift, he
snapshifted down into second, then first, as control of the battered Russian
jeep was wrested from his grip. Closing the throttle, he pulled the tires
straight, but the jeep lurched, leaped over a low sand wave, then shuddered as
its tires sank in above the axles.

"Shit,"
he swore, switching off the ignition. The jeep gave a final convulsive shudder.
Breathing heavily, he rested his head against his arms on the steering wheel,
telling himself that it could've been worse, then he pulled a bandanna from his
jeans and wiped his face and neck. It had been stupid to drive so fast,
especially in this heat when the sand was so soft.

He
got out of the jeep and noticed the blowing sand playing down the face of the
towering dune. The incessant wind was furious, concentrating its energy at the
top of the steep, saw-toothed cornices, then drifting silently across the flats
below. The featureless desert seemed to be mocking him as it danced and
shimmered in the 120-degree heat.

To
the east were nothing but high dune crests stretching unbroken for a hundred
miles, followed by miles of rock cliff djebels and open serir, which he knew
extended all the way to the Nile Valley. His colleagues shouldn't be too far
behind, but any number of things could happen in deep desert.

He
grabbed the pair of binoculars hanging from a knob on the dashboard, but he
realized they wouldn't be much help. In the silent heat, with the gentle rise
of the land to the south, he'd hear the hum of approaching vehicles long before
he'd see them. Heat waves were playing at the extremities of his vision,
distorting the distant terrain into grotesque, dancing ghosts of what lay
beyond, just out of sight.

Walking
to the back of the jeep, Cavanaugh crossed his legs and folded himself onto the
sand in a single motion, like an Arab. He slipped on his sunglasses and
extracted a cigar from a breast pocket, rolling it slowly around in his mouth.
Time trickled by. He settled back and let his thoughts wander.

He'd
been on this field assignment nearly a month now. He was enjoying the work,
mapping interdune rock outcrops, and he'd return to Cairo in a month to find
forty thousand Egyptian pounds credited to his account. But it was the desert
more than the money that had brought him to Egypt, the chance for adventure and
discovery in a land that promised both.

He
also had the luxury of time now, but it had cost him his marriage. Geology
meant field work, and field work meant the desert. The two-day excursions had
grown to a week, then a month, his obsession with the desert eventually
alienating the woman he loved. He’d always been so certain that his devotion to
his work would make any personal sacrifice worthwhile, that he’d find something
really important, even make a great discovery like his father, but overwhelming
guilt was the only thing he’d been left with in the end.

Sighing,
he pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, scratched one into flame, and
drew the cigar to life.

By
the time he’d finished his smoke, the afternoon sun was hovering in mid-sky,
the shadow of the dune creeping toward his feet. Cavanaugh closed his eyes and
drifted into a light sleep.

A
breeze stirred, hot as breath from an oven door, puffing a flurry of sand into
his face. He burst from a nightmare with a groan and wiped the sand from his
eyes. Anticipation of the dream used to keep him from sleeping when he was
overtired, but he'd been living with it so long that the phantasm had lost some
of its bite. It had been years since he'd awakened in panic.

The
well.

Always
the same, like a rerun.

He
was in a clearing surrounded by palm trees, wrestling playfully with his
childhood friends, when he felt a shove from behind and found himself
plummeting face first into a funnel of sand. Screaming in terror, he clawed at
the loose earth as the wide black hole yawned below. Everything shifted into
slow motion as he slid to the brink, pulling a brick out of the lip of the well
as he groped for a handhold. Its weathered edges crumbled in his fingers, and
his body tumbled down the shaft, the dank musty smell of damp earth assaulting
his senses as the tiny circle of light overhead retreated. He always awakened
before hitting the bottom, but not before a huddled pile of bones raced up to
greet him, skull facing upward, mouth gaping in the sardonic grimace of
eternity.

The
dream mirrored a truth Cavanaugh carried closer than his wallet and house keys.
While living in the walled American compound near Daharan as a boy, he'd often
escaped to play with the children of his Indian ayah and their many Arab
playmates. On that particular day, he and his best friend Ahmad had been
wrestling, when Ahmad suddenly tumbled backward into a broad funnel of sand
around the opening of an abandoned well. The boy screamed, frantically
clutching at the loose soil, then disappeared head first down the hole.
Cavanaugh had raced to the edge with a rope and climbed down. But thirty feet
into the pit he'd become too terrified to go deeper.

Later,
after Ahmad's body had been recovered, the police said he'd died in the fall,
but Cavanaugh had never been able to erase the humiliation of his fear on the
rope, the cowardly role he'd played in the tragedy.

His
father's words of comfort had carried a hidden onus. "You did the best you
could, son, and I’m proud of you. You’ve shown me that you have the courage to
act in an emergency. But if you want to become a man, you must learn to
overcome your fears, be able to climb all the way down the next time you find
yourself staring into a hole as black as pitch."

Cavanaugh
had always believed his father could do anything, and wondered if he would ever
measure up to him. George Cavanaugh had been an aggressive California oilman
with local drilling investments, as well as a skilled amateur antiquarian who'd
discovered the first relics of a 4,000-year-old Sumerian port on the coast of
the Gulf of Bahrain. He'd assisted in the excavation of the site, which proved
to be an ancient pearl-harvesting center. His sudden death three years after
the well incident had devastated the young Cavanaugh.

While
on another of his jaunts into the desert, George had become separated from his
colleagues during a two-day sandstorm. When he was finally found, lying at the
base of a dune three days after the storm, he could barely breathe from an
allergic reaction to more than two dozen scorpion stings. He had collapsed from
exhaustion over their burrows.

John
could still hear the knock on the door, the desert police telling his mother
that they'd found his father, the sound of her sobs. He'd never thought his
parents had been very close, until he heard them talking as he opened the door
to his dad's hospital room. The unfamiliar words, "I'm sorry I wasn't
there more," and "I've always loved you," had brought tears to
his eyes, and it was then that he realized his father was dying.

George
Cavanaugh had been a healthy, robust, ruddy-faced man, but he'd looked old that
day, his voice a rasp through the tube stuck down in his throat. "Sit
down, son," he'd said. "Remember all the times we went out in the
desert together, how I told you there were wonderful discoveries to be made out
there? Well, I was wrong, John." He wheezed, forcing a weak smile.
"And I've been wrong about a lot of things. Family is the most important
thing in life, but I let the desert seduce me. Don't let it do that to
you."

John
had started crying then, confused by the urgency in his father's voice.
"Okay, Dad," was all he could manage.

His
father had looked at him with a mixture of sadness and pride. "I know
you'll keep going out there. It's in your guts. Just don't go too deep, son.
You can't beat it."

Cavanaugh
had merely nodded, afraid to trust his voice.

"I
love you, son, and I've always been proud of you."

Those
were the last words his father had spoken to him. George Cavanaugh had died
less than an hour later.

Ever
since that day, Cavanaugh had been determined to do something with his life,
discover something that would make him feel worthy of his father’s pride. Find
a major new oil field or uncover a buried city. He'd taken every opportunity to
explore the desert, but his years of work in it hadn't turned up anything of
importance and his sense of aimlessness was growing like a cancer.

He’d
also never overcome the fear that had paralyzed him that day in the well, could
never understand how he’d let something so intangible wield such power over
him. But even the bedou’in Arabs dropped their voices when speaking the
word. Rou’ab. What was its source, and how could a man free himself from
its strength?

Shaking
off the memories brought by the dream, Cavanaugh sighed and glanced at his
watch: 4:41 P.M.
Where the hell was the rest of his crew, he wondered. They should've been no
more than an hour behind him. He stood up, deciding to climb the nearby dune
and look around.

His
upward progress was slow and laborious, every step plunging his feet several
inches into loose sand. The sediment cascaded under his weight, almost pulling
him backward as much as he climbed. He finally stepped over the sharp crest and
plopped down on the sand to survey the stark panorama.

Cavanaugh
scanned the horizon. To the west, far in the distance, he could just make out a
tall black garet, a hill rising above the tallest dunes.

He
was about to return to the jeep and dig it out, when he caught a movement out
of the corner of his eye. If there was anything travelers could rely on in deep
desert, he knew, it was the absence of movement. The sweat on his back turned
cold, the subtle motion beckoning his senses like a siren. All he had to do was
take a peek.

Cavanaugh
took a deep breath and forced his head around.

Far
to the west, its base originating just in front of the horizon, rose a tall,
narrow, twisted pillar of red dust—a zazay bil djebel. The cyclone
seemed immobile at first, but as Cavanaugh watched, the cylinder of sand began
weaving sinuously back and forth, bending first at its midline then nearer the
top. Everything around him was serene, though, not a thread of sound
penetrating the still desert air.

He
let out a breath of relief and sat down. Just a dust-devil. Then he glanced to
the west, looking for it, and it was gone. As he scanned the horizon, finally
spotting it again, his skin broke out in sweat.

It
lay to the south now, at least a mile closer.

Impossible!
It couldn't have changed course and advanced so far eastward in just a few
seconds. His cold sweat returned as another realization hit him. The dust and
sand billowing from the base of the vortex was drifting to the south, but the
dust devil was advancing steadily to the north. Against the wind.

Toward
him.

Stifling
a shudder, Cavanaugh stood up and turned away, running to the crest of the
dune, where he paused to look back. The whirlwind had vanished. A
hallucination, he told himself. The shimmering heat waves playing tricks on his
vision. Shrugging off the illusion, he pounded back down the steep sandy slope
toward his jeep. The warm breeze whipped his soaked clothing as he ran, easing
his tension as it cooled his skin. He sat down at the base of the dune and
emptied the sand from his shoes.

The
sun had waned noticeably by now, its huge red disk looming only inches over the
horizon. The floor of the desert was littered with smooth flint and ironstone
pebbles. Among them, he spotted an irregular lump of sand about the size of a
golf ball that was glimmering in the fading sunlight. He plucked it up to study
it closer, noticing that it was unusually heavy. A mineralized rock, he
decided.

He
shoved it into a pocket of his vest and trotted back to his jeep, just in time
to hear the hum of approaching vehicles.

*
*
*

Cavanaugh
woke up long before sunrise, well ahead of the others. He lit the white gas gaz
ob'yat burner and put some water on to boil. Minutes later, coffee in one
hand, notebook in the other, he began perusing his notes on what they'd
discovered in the last few weeks' work. He found nothing particularly
encouraging. A couple of decent rock samples—maybe.

He
ducked into his tent and returned a moment later with a specimen tied up
tightly in a white cloth bag. He tried to open it with his fingers, then
reached for his pocket knife, pulling it out with his keys, several coins, and
the heavy lump of sand he'd found the day before. The object was much smaller
now, since most of the friable sand had fallen away, but it seemed even heavier
than he remembered. He noticed a yellowish metallic object buried inside, its
hue similar to that of a new brass key.

Curious,
he scrubbed away the remaining sand, turned the object over and over, and
studied it through a hand lens.

The
glittering gold coin bore the images of a lion and bull facing each other on
one side, and a block of incuse squares on the other. It had to be ancient.

How
the hell did it get way out here, he wondered, 350 miles from the closest
outpost of civilization?

-3-

LONDON
AUGUST 18, 1999

Morley
Bishop studied his feet as he followed the nurse down the familiar, worn
linoleum of the psychiatric hospital. His heavy body plodded along with
determination, bald head gleaming in the dim light, head like a round yellow
cheese perched squarely erect on stooping shoulders. The floor's light green,
muddled pattern reminded him of a mass of rotting weeds. Strips of peeling
paint drooped from the dirty, off-white walls, and a musty odor hung in the
air, defying all chemical efforts to eradicate it. Sometimes it was nearly
imperceptible, but today it was unusually strong, its essence seeming to
emanate from a realm somewhere between despair and oblivion.

He'd
have to tell Philip he was going out there again. He could've gone back years
ago if his damned fool surveyor Messenger had kept his head and gotten their
records out, instead of panicking and disappearing with the maps and the truck.
He’s probably a mummy by now, Bishop thought, smirking.

A
security guard was sitting at a table fifty feet down the hall, reading a comic
book. Bishop frowned when the man stood up, disgusted by his sallow skin,
greasy hair, and dirty clothes.

"This
gentleman is here to see the man in 307," the nurse announced.

The
guard whistled through broken front teeth. "He’s the worst, he is, and you
know it. Lost 'is bloomin' mind. Poor bloke just sits and stares out the
window. Sometimes screams, but mostly just nights now. Screams about sand.
Aren't no sand here anywhere, miss. At least...well, you know."

The
guard took a fat ring of keys from a drawer in his tiny battered table and led
them down the corridor. To their left, the drab light of a cloudy mid-August
London afternoon filtered through a bank of tall windows, offering little cheer
to the gloomy atmosphere of the hall. They passed a series of gray steel doors,
Bishop mentally counting off the numbers as he walked.

"Stand
back, sir," the guard said, drawing a heavy club from his belt. "Got
to be sure he aren't near the door."

"Open
it," Bishop barked. "He's not going to hurt anyone."

The
nurse inserted her key in one lock, the attendant in the other, turning them in
unison. Raising the weapon in readiness, the guard pushed the door open and
peered inside, then turned back to Bishop. "Looks right peaceful today,
sir. Sleepin', he is."

The
room was all too familiar. He'd seen it more than fifty times. As always, the
walls and floor were bare. A patient could cut his throat with the glass from a
picture frame or tear a rug into strips long enough to hang himself. The only
furniture was a bed, which was bolted to the floor. The flowers he'd sent four
days ago lay wilted and dry beside it, since flower pots were also forbidden.
The patient might cut himself on a jagged shard, if he could unstrap himself
from the bed.

Philip
Robards was lying on the bed, his face turned away. He did appear to be asleep,
but he spoke up as Bishop walked toward the bed. "Is that you?"

"Yes,
Philip," Bishop replied, paling at the sight of the invalid. "It's
me. Can I do anything for you?"

"No,
just stay awhile."

"As
long as you wish." Bishop's hands were beginning to shake as he reached
out and stroked the man's hair. "I think I can safely say that your ordeal
will be over soon."

Robards
rolled over, his forearms pushing violently against the tightly stretched
fabric as he tried to reach for Bishop's hand. "Over?" he laughed.
"How can it ever be over?"

"I'm
going back out there, Philip."

Robards'
eyes looked as if they were coming out of their sockets. "You can't go out
there again. You can't!"

"It's
our only hope."

Philip
turned away, staring bleakly out the barred window. What was left of the eyes
he'd tried to tear out with his fingers two years earlier might still see, but
through an ever-present fog. "Then you'll die," he whispered.
"And I'm done for anyway." His laugh progressed to a maniacal raving,
spittle drooling down his chin. "Tell them to wash me again," he
ranted. "My clothes are full of sand. Why are they always full of
sand?" He groaned, then fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "Listen! Do
you hear that pounding? It's deafening. It's coming again. Can't you smell it?
Oh, God. Cover me. Cover me!"

Bishop
laid a hand on Philip's shoulder. "It's going to be all right,
Philip." He pulled off his sunglasses and bent over, staring into the
man's ruined eyes. "You see it?" he whispered. "I have it
too." He giggled. "Yes, and it's much worse now. It came on me a few
years ago, and it's been escalating ever since." He paused, grinning.
"We're the same now, you and I. We'll beat this thing yet. By God, I swear
it. Now that I've got someone who knows where to go."

"Too
strong," Philip moaned. "And us...we were too close. I'm turning,
dissolving. It's twisting in me like a worm." His head collapsed on his
pillow.

After
showing Bishop out, the guard returned to the nurse's station to find her
waiting with mop and pail. He took the pail, and they started back down the
hall.

"Cain't
understand it, miss," he said. "Where the devil does it come
from?"

The
girl shrugged. "He must bring it in with him. Personally, I think they're
both crazy. Did you notice that guy's head? It looks like a squashed
pear."

Robards
was howling uncontrollably when they opened the door.

"Something's
set 'im off again, miss."

Closing
the door, the two set to work, sweeping up the floor around the bed where
Bishop had stood.

-4-

This happened, or maybe it did not;
the time is long past,and much is forgot—Egyptian
proverb

KHARGA OASIS
SEPTEMBER 4, 523 B.C.E.

The
Persian army was already two months late getting underway from the island
village of Oasis. Worse, a blinding sandstorm had blown in with the dawn.
Hydarnes, the new satrap of Egypt, met with his Parthian friend Astathes
and raged against Osroes, his obese, obsequious paymaster, who had just asked
for an additional six camels to transport the treasury.

Time
was of the essence. After the oracle of a tiny oasis had enraged him by
predicting that the Persian stay in Egypt would be a short one, the Great King
Cambyses, Hydarnes' uncle, had demanded of his nephew that he complete his
desert campaign before the winter solstice. Hydarnes' orders were to destroy
the oasis and bring the oracle to the Nile Valley for execution.

At
forty-seven years, Hydarnes was just beginning to show a smattering of gray. He
was stocky without being fat, medium in height, and dark skinned. His long,
curly black hair was knotted in back above his waist, his beard braided in rows
of thick curls that accentuated his darting, hawk-like eyes. He wore leather
trousers and a jerkin of rectangular strips of hide stitched together and
reinforced at the corners with bronze conchos. A brilliant tactician, Hydarnes
had fought with his uncle and the first Great King, Cyrus, rising rapidly
through the ranks because of his valor, ingenuity, and an almost fanatical
devotion to duty. Though still fit, he'd grown battle weary through the endless
campaigns. He planned to make this his last, then retire with his wife and
unseen newborn son to the cool Alborz Mountains of northern Persia.

A
giant, Astathes stood six-foot five and weighed 280 pounds. He too, wore
leather breeches, but his shoulders were covered with a goatskin mantle
speckled with iron studs. The haft of his long curved knife was barely visible
above the sleeve of his mantle. Although Astathes was ten years younger than
his friend and commander, the long hair knotted in a bun at the top of his head
and straggly beard were already streaked with gray.

A
fifteen-day march through the desert lay between the village of Oasis, where
they were now assembling their troops, and their military objective. Hydarnes'
principal concern was water—having enough and finding a way to carry it. Now,
his foolish paymaster wanted to squander an additional six camels to transport
the army's treasury instead of the more precious water.

He
cuffed the cowering Osroes sharply across both cheeks, then placed a foot on
the man's fat shoulder and shoved him into the sand. The paymaster rolled away,
peering up fearfully before standing. Once he'd pulled himself to his feet, he
raced out of the tent, ushering in a fresh blast of sand.

It
was decided that an additional thousand slaves would be purchased to carry
nothing but water, in addition to the supply borne by the soldiers and three
hundred camels. The new slaves would be abandoned in the desert, either at the
halfway point of their march or at the place en route where the guides had said
they would find springs. Should no springs be found, the guides would be handed
over to the marooned slaves, at whose hands they would die unspeakable deaths.

The
sand stopped blowing by late morning, and the day turned hot as the sky
cleared. The men were paid their current wage chits and arrears, and Astathes
suggested they decamp as soon as possible, before the soldiers found an
opportunity to drink wine and gamble away their pay.

A
curious host of 14,075 persons began the march toward the western extremity of
Kharga Oasis, led by Hydarnes and his geographer Datanes on camels and
surrounded by Datanes' pupils and assistants, as well as a two-hundred-strong
contingent of Bactrian cavalry. A skilled equestrian force, the cavalry
consisted of noblemen sworn to act as bodyguards for Hydarnes. They were
followed by two thousand peltasts and slingers. The peltasts' light spears were
stowed in cloth loops that dangled against their shoulders, and the slings hung
from girdles at the slingers' waists. Many played pipes as they marched, the barren
flats at the west end of the island resounding for the first time with the
wailing, melancholy music of the central Anatolian highlands. Behind them
trailed three thousand archers, who tramped in time with the music, their spare
bows folded in lots in the baggage train. Since it was unlikely that the army
would see action in the barren desert before encountering the Siwans, all but
two each of their arrows rested untipped in their quivers. The archers were
Parthians and Bactrians, accustomed to plying their skilled marksmanship from
horseback, but they moved on foot now, members of an army that could ill afford
the extravagance of many four-legged beasts.

The
largest part of the force consisted of six parts of light infantry drawn from
the best troops in Egypt, numbering eight hundred Bactrians, four thousand
native Egyptians led by a competent young officer named Minnes, and twelve
hundred Ethiopians from Upper Egypt. The latter had been captured by Hydarnes
and the Great King during their campaigns the previous year in Nubia. Excellent
fighters, the Ethiopian prisoners had willingly joined the Persian ranks after
the promise of monthly pay, regular food, and billeting, luxuries hitherto
unknown to them.

The
slingers and peltasts wore drab, light wool garments and conical leather
skullcaps. In contrast, the Parthian and Bactrian archers were adorned in
brightly-colored cotton tunics and shoulder trappings of goatskin, all studded
with gleaming conchos of bright metal. Although no longer on horseback, the Parthians
had insisted on wearing their normal equestrian footwear, either boots of
tightly wound hide straps that extended up to their knees or the entire hide of
a horse's leg cinched wet to their own to dry and shrink in place.

The
Bactrian infantry and Median cavalry wore trousers and tunics that fell below
the knees, garments fashioned from rectangles of cloth in numerous bright
colors that had been stitched together, the seams joined by iron studs. Their
heads were covered with the helmets Hydarnes favored, wicker cornucopias with
the horn's apex turned forward, adorned with the plumage of exotic fowl. Their
feet were protected by crude leather or wicker sandals. All toted huge, convex,
rectangular shields fashioned of heavy wicker faced with leather, the various
clans' motifs emblazoned on the front.

The
native-Egyptian infantry's attire was more utilitarian for a long desert march,
consisting of a short cotton skirt and a thin wrap for the shoulders. They wore
no shoes or helmets, and carried short heavy spears, axes, and light,
figure-eight wooden shields faced with ox hide.

The
heads and feet of the Ethiopians were also bare. Thin, link-mail armor clung
tightly to their bodies, with plain skirts or breechclouts underneath. Each
carried two light spears, a long trident, a net, a small wooden shield, and a
dagger secured in a leather girdle.

In
the rear of the army trod its entourage, nearly three thousand strong. Slaves,
prostitutes, military surgeons, potters, woodworkers, weapons-makers and other
craftsmen, the paymaster Osroes and his huge retinue, along with 150 friends,
relatives, adventurers, and hopeful entrepreneurs aspiring to gain a fortune by
impressing any surviving Siwans into slavery.

The
six hundred original slaves were barefoot, clothed in rags or shoddy worn
skins, the fleshy part of their noses cut off to denote their status. Most were
suffering from chronic dysentery, and all were plagued with the boils and
lesions of the obligatory unclean. Four hundred and twenty of them bore thousands
of bronze and iron projectile points, leather thongs to bind them against their
hafts, as well as an assortment of knives, shields, armor, and wood and wicker
strips for repairing shields and helmets.

The
thousand new slaves, carrying only water, walked between the Egyptian infantry
and the Ethiopians. All were barefoot and wore only the most rudimentary
garments. Many were naked. All were young, carefully selected for their
strength, each carrying eighty pounds of water in tall, sixteen-pound ceramic jars
bound to their backs and heads with heavy leather straps.

At
Hydarnes' insistence, Astathes had instructed the men to carry no personal
gear. Nevertheless, every soldier had done so, most carrying charms for luck in
battle. The Egyptians, whose custom it was to shave the meager hair on their
bodies, carried razors. The Persians, preferring luxuriant growths of hair,
carried combs and sharp hair knives, even mirrors. Many brought leather straps
fitted with metal rings on which to hang the trophies cut from their victim's
bodies—ears, fingers, clutches of hair, and penises. This barbaric habit had
spread among the troops, adopted even by some of the Bactrians and Medes.
Hydarnes was determined to put a stop to it, but he knew that now was not the
time.

Even
Astathes had hidden something for luck, a huge bronze helmet too cumbersome to
wear in battle, given to him by his wife's family. For himself, Hydarnes had
sewn four precious letters written by his wife into the secret pocket of his
saddle bag, reading the next in sequence each night before falling asleep.

Most
of the soldiers, even many of the slaves, had concealed a container of extra
water. Although there had been an ample supply under the hot sun of Kharga
Oasis, all had been perpetually thirsty there. None had any knowledge of the
looming desert, except that it would be drier still.

And
totally unknown.

By
late afternoon, the army had reached the high cliffs bordering the western edge
of the oasis. The precipice rose over a thousand feet, but an ancient trail
that led to the top of the rise was visible. Hydarnes ordered sixty horsemen to
secure the crest and guard the desert approaches as the rest of his men labored
up the slope. Four hours later, the largest part of the force had reached the
top.

An
old man repairing the mud wall of a canal on the western edge of the oasis
would be the last human being to see Cambyses' army. Nearly dusk now, it had
taken the Persian troops almost two hours to march by. Bringing up the rear was
a young boy, who was trying to kill one of the old man's geese with
slingstones. He made two attempts, missing with both stones. The goose merely
jumped slightly, then settled back to its placid indifference. The boy could
easily have walked down and stolen the bird, but he seemed more interested in
antagonizing the old man.

The
ancient kept his head down, and the young slinger finally gave up, tramping the
rest of the way up the sandy hill, his colorful striped robes whipping in the
breeze. Reaching the crest, the youth turned back to give a last wistful glance
at his lost prey, then raised his arms high over his head as he spied the man
watching him and shouted a defiant "Yee-yow!" Then, in the blink of
an eye, he vanished over the rise.

The
villager returned to his work. In cupped hands he gathered up a new supply of
mud, pressed it against his filthy jerkin to squeeze out the excess water, then
slopped and smoothed it over the sides and top of the wall. He applied more mud
in the same fashion, chanting a prayer in rhythm with the fading melody of
martial piping as the host of invisible soldiers trekked into the distance.

Twenty
minutes later, all was quiet.

By
morning, the soldiers' tracks had blown away.

-5-

AL-GIZA (CAIRO)
AUGUST 22, 1999

Cavanaugh
arrived at the pool bar of the Swiss Jolie Ville Hotel at 1:00 P.M., ordered a scotch, and gazed out at
the great pyramid of Khufu looming a mile away. The man he'd consulted for on
his last desert job was late for their appointment, but he didn't mind the
inconvenience. Cairo and Giza traffic were approaching gridlock, and waiting
was something he'd grown accustomed to.

He'd
just finished his drink when the tall, portly, florid man finally emerged from
the gilt-edged blue curtains dripping from a portico at the far entrance of the
bar. He'd first met Morley Bishop months before, and had guessed him to be in
his late fifties, but he looked a decade older now. His pate was bald, a bit of
hair surviving above the ears, his face tan and leathery. If you studied him
hard enough, you'd conclude he'd once been an attractive man. But something
about his face made Cavanaugh instinctively look away. The hands also didn't
seem to fit his frame. Fragile, delicate appendages, the fingers long and
slender like a woman's. He was sporting an immaculate, white-linen colonial
suit and black silk tie. A pair of sunglasses rested on his nose like blinders,
so dark that had he not navigated so well through the tables around the pool
Cavanaugh might've thought he was blind.

"Cavanaugh,"
Bishop said, stepping up to the table.

"That's
right." The geologist smiled as he stood up and offered his hand,
wondering if the man remembered him. Bishop's head and face had changed since
they'd first met, become squashed and twisted somehow. Looking at him was
unnerving, and Cavanaugh wondered what the hell had happened.

Bishop
sat down, ignoring the hand. "Hot day. I could use a drink. Have another
yourself?"

Signaling
a waitress, Bishop ordered gin and water with lime, no ice. Cavanaugh stuck
with his usual White Horse. The drinks came, and both men sampled deeply.
Nodding approval, Bishop pursed his lips in satisfaction. Everything the man
did seemed overdone. He was an expatriate Englishman, though, and could
be permitted a few eccentricities.

Looking
up again, Cavanaugh started. Bishop's narrow, yellow incisors were curled down
below his lower lip, making him look like a huge rat. Had they been so long
before?

"I
want to hire you for another consulting job," Bishop said.

Cavanaugh
folded his hands on the table and smiled. "Great. I'm always up for
another desert adventure."

Bishop
smiled thinly, as though the idea of adventure had never occurred to him.
"I want you to complete the mapping survey you began for us in the same
sector of the Great Sand Sea where you found that ancient coin. Oh, here it is,
by the way," he said, plopping the coin down on the table. "Sotheby's
said it's a Persian stater, worth about £2,200. I'm going along this time, and
I'll pay you double your usual fee. There's also a strong chance that we'll run
into more antiquities, and they'd be worth a great deal of money. You'll get a
good share of that too."

"That's
very generous." Cavanaugh surrendered a grim smile, his blood beginning to
boil. What Bishop was proposing was illegal, and somehow Cavanaugh sensed that
Bishop's motives had nothing to do with mapping or any money to be gained from
antiquities. He was a wealthy man. For himself, the appeal of another
expedition to the Great Sand Sea wasn't really in the money, even though he
could certainly use it. It might be his last chance to explore one of the most
remote and dangerous places on earth—a place only a handful of explorers had
ever visited.

He
leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "It's a crime to remove
antiquities, let alone sell them. You know that as well as I do."

Bishop
smiled and leaned back, as if to distance himself from Cavanaugh's disapproving
eyes. "Of course it is. But there won't be any chance of an antiquities
agent showing up where we're going." He smiled again, then snapped his
fingers for another round and, pulling out a cigarette, tapped it on the table
before lighting it with a gleaming gold Zippo. "I'm being more than fair
with you, Cavanaugh. You're the best man for the job. The deep desert is
dangerous. Long stretches way out in real desert..." He paused, sweeping
his hands. "Well, they can do things to a man." Bishop shifted in his
chair, as if uncomfortable. "We've had more than a few...uh, problems out
there in the past, but you returned without any ill effects."

Cavanaugh
had heard about the "problems" from shop talk between colleagues
before his first desert mission. Some British fellow by the name of Robards had
gone mad in the Great Sand Sea in 1984. He'd been incarcerated in a London
psychiatric hospital with no hope of improvement. Others had died, and Robards'
surveyor, a man named Messenger, had disappeared. Three years ago, Will Strangways
vanished from his field party while mapping in the same area. He was found two
days later, wandering naked through the desert with his hands over his ears,
hopelessly insane. He'd been interned in a mental hospital in Denver, but
escaped after a few months and committed suicide. Another problem had cropped
up just last year, when Phil Rogers and Corky Moore disappeared in the same
region. Their bodies were never found, but a search turned up their truck,
which was stuck in the sand, intact and operable, with a full water fantass
and three full quart canteens on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

Problems.
All in the same tract of desert. Cavanaugh didn't know what to make of the
tragedies, and neither did anyone else. He'd seen men and women lose it in the
field before, determined professionals who couldn't handle the isolation. It
did things to their minds. He'd once had to discharge a man in Saudi Arabia
who'd abandoned a desert drilling rig, repeating over and over, "We don't
belong out here."

He
glanced up at Bishop, but the man's gaze was fixed at the bottom of his drink.
He evidently didn't like what he saw there because he was frowning when he
finally looked up again.

"Well,
that's it, Cavanaugh," he said. "We'll head out there around the end
of September. We'll have some bedou'in laborers along. They can be a
troublesome lot. The deeper into the sand we go, the more we'll have to ride
herd on them. They, uh...scare easily."

"But
there's nothing out there to scare them."

Bishop
grabbed him by the wrist. "You're wrong, Cavanaugh. There is
something out there. The void." He seemed to stifle a giggle, and the
pitch of his voice rose alarmingly. "Oh, yes. The void."

Cavanaugh
felt the hackles rising on his neck. He stared at Bishop, too surprised to
respond.

Apparently
noticing his reaction, Bishop dropped his hand just as abruptly as he'd grabbed
it. He picked up his gin and took a couple of deep gulps.

Cavanaugh
noticed a sudden stink of burning oil on hot metal. He glanced back at the
hotel but saw no smoke. In the same moment, Bishop was seized by a violent
coughing fit. Cavanaugh made a move to help, but the man waved him away,
composed himself, then tossed off the rest of his gin and stood up.

"Our
departure date will be posted in the office Monday morning. I'll see you
then." Bishop turned on his heel and walked away.

Cavanaugh
tracked him as the man strode through the throng of drinkers, until he
disappeared through the drapes at the far end of the pool. A breeze came up, raking
over the blue water, and a chill ran through him. How could that be? The
temperature had been over a hundred, and the afternoon sun was still blazing
overhead.

Unannounced,
a tall, blond man slid into the opposite side of the booth, pulling Cavanaugh’s
attention away from the sudden change in temperature.

"Can
I help you?" Cavanaugh asked.

"My
name's Doug Genoways," the man began. "I was sitting in the adjoining
booth and couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation with that other
guy. Something about an ancient Persian coin."

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